


This is what I want

by alexaprilgarden



Series: This is what I want [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternative First Meeting, Closeted Bisexuality, First Kiss, First Sex, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, Watching a film, cinema, heavily inspired by Call Me By Your Name, not really a crossover but close
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-11 21:30:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12944340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexaprilgarden/pseuds/alexaprilgarden
Summary: John is an invalided former field surgeon who has been working as a doctor in a small clinic in London for a few years now. He has never heard of Sherlock Holmes. But he ends up sitting next to him in the cinema watchingCall Me By Your Name.Afterwards, they talk. And finally meet again.





	This is what I want

**Author's Note:**

  * For [green_violin_bow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/gifts).



> This fic contains spoilers for _Call Me By Your Name_ (both novel and film). It might be helpful if you have either read the book or watched the film before reading this fic.  
>   
>  I, actually, haven’t watched the film yet, it won’t be shown in cinemas in my country until March 2018. Thankfully the marvellous, wonderful [@green_violin_bow has](http://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow) helped me out with her impressions of the film. She also beta’ed this fic, discussed the novel, its protagonists and the actors with me and answered a million questions I’ve had. Thank you so much, my dear, this fic is for you.  
>   
>  _Call Me By Your Name_ is the property of André Aciman (novel) and Luca Guadanigno (film), I don’t own any of the characters or original ideas. The paragraphs quoted are from Aciman’s novel _Call Me By Your Name_.

John saw the posters of the film on his commute to the clinic. They were plastered all over the tube stations and he had stared at them for a long time, almost forgetting to catch his train. After watching the trailer of _Call Me By Your Name_ at home on his laptop and swallowing hard against the rapidly forming lump in his throat John had known he couldn’t _not_ watch the film. 

He decides to go alone, not that he really has anyone to watch this film with. Maybe the ‘right person’ to watch it with doesn’t even exist. For him. 

Sherlock, in his chair, found himself staring at the black screen of his mobile after yet another mention of the film had popped up again on his twitter feed. He had clicked on the link to the trailer. 

When his mind and his heart finally had stilled, when the images from the depth of his mind palace had been filed away again, the fire in the living room had died. His hands had felt icy and stiff by the time he put the phone down and got up from his chair. He had stared into the darkness for a while, then took the phone again and tapped at the screen a few times, navigating through websites at lightning speed. He had huffed at himself when he had booked his ticket. 

Walking through the foyer of the cinema the next night, Sherlock tries not to feel pathetic for watching a _romance_. 

When John hurries across the same space some ten minutes later, cane in his hand, he tries not to feel pathetic for watching it alone. 

— 

John smiles apologetically at the man who checks his ticket. He is too late. He’d fussed and hesitated as he changed into fresh clothes at home. He’d stared at the few things in his small fridge for long minutes, trying to make up his mind whether or not to eat something before going to the cinema. None of the small decisions had actually mattered. He’d just been avoiding leaving, and he knew it. 

Now he has to stumble through the darkness, trying to find his seat. Row F, seat 14. Seat 15 is taken by a tall man with dark hair who is staring at his phone. His pale face is illuminated by the blue glow of the screen, revealing the deep frown between his brows and unusually prominent cheekbones. He doesn't even look up when John sits down next to him. John is grateful for that. 

The film starts. John is sucked into the story so fast he forgets that he’s watching a film. He feels like being part of the scenery where Elio and Oliver fall in love, like being a silent bystander while they spend that Italian summer together. 

When Elio kisses Oliver for the first time, open-mouthed and daring, he gasps. 

Watching them kiss is — completely different from what John had expected. _Fuck._ He feels raw, eyes wide in the darkness. 

Sherlock blinks. 

Some time later, John watches Oliver rubbing Elio’s feet. Elio reaches out to Oliver’s shoulder, desire flickering across his face. No – pure _want._ John closes his eyes, briefly. 

Sherlock bites at the knuckle of his index finger. Oliver and Elio are in bed. Upside-down on the screen, Oliver’s fingers frame Elio’s jaw with such gentleness that Sherlock heart aches. _Call me by your name and I’ll call you by mine._

When the morning breaks on screen, Oliver watches the dozing Elio with trepidation. There is love in his expression as his fingertips stroke the boy’s chest, love mingled with something else that John recognizes immediately — fear. He exhales as if someone has punched his chest. 

John hears two muffled sniffs in the darkness, beneath the music from the film. A third one, a moment later. He turns his head, just enough to see the stranger next to him out of the corner of his eye, trying not to attract attention. He wouldn’t want to be caught staring. The man’s gaze is fixed on the screen, though, completely absorbed in the film. His face, eyes reddened and cheeks glistening, shows hurt and sadness and love. He is crying. 

John swallows, suddenly fighting tears of his own. He considers handing the stranger a tissue, but that would mean acknowledging the tears of another man. He doesn't feel strong enough. 

Oliver and Elio spend a few days in Rome. Oliver leaves. Elio’s sadness burns in John’s eyes and he wishes he had, just once in his life, experienced a love this intense. When Elio’s dad — his wise, kind dad — talks to Elio about Oliver, John feels more lonely than he ever did in life. 

When the lights come up, Sherlock remains seated. For the past ninety minutes a waterfall has been washing through him, having taken all fortifications and dams with it and left his bare soul to the torrent of his emotions. He is in too deep to be even frightened by it. 

It is a while before he realises he is no longer in darkness. When he looks up, he finds the short, blond man who has been sitting next to him standing, leaning on his cane, ready to leave and to go on with his life. But he hesitates, turning on the spot until he’s facing Sherlock. He clears his throat and after a moment of obvious inner battle — the man’s expressions are extraordinary, passing across his face with terrible clarity — he hands Sherlock a pack of tissues. 

“Hey. You... okay?” 

— 

They find a small pub near the cinema. It’s hardly a fancy place and there are only a few guests scattered around the other tables — enough, though, that the murmur of their noise swallows John’s and Sherlock’s talking and gives them some privacy. 

They sit down at a small table next to a window and John orders two pints. 

Sherlock bites his lips, furrowing his brows. He looks at the scratches on the table between them. 

“I…,“ he starts. And stops again. He takes a sip from his pint instead. For a moment, the foam glistens on his upper lip. 

“I don’t usually do this,” he finally says, his voice rough. 

“Going out for a pint after watching a film?” John tries with a smile, although he knows the stranger is referring to something else entirely. 

The man puts down his pint, raises an eyebrow and casts John an incredulous look. Although he seems to be shaken to the core, John spots a brief flicker of irony there, of an offbeat sense of humour maybe. 

John watches the stranger draw a breath, open his mouth and close it again, struggling for the right words to name his overflowing emotions. John is beginning to feel awkward, he wonders if it was a good idea to take him out for a pint. But John couldn’t have just left him in the cinema in that state, could he? 

The stranger blinks at the white foam on his beer, once, twice, three times. He glances at John and those pale, indeterminable eyes sends a wave of goosebumps down John’s spine. 

And then the stranger cracks open and starts talking a mile a minute. 

“Elio. This film. I had no idea that it would be so—” He hesitates, seeking a word, and John has the strange impression that it’s not a common occurrence for him, not being able to articulate. “Intimate,” the man finds, at last, exhaling with relief at the expression of his thoughts, clearly racing ahead already. 

He briefly stops as if to rest, eyes for a moment darting up to John’s. 

“I’ve been in love, not like that, but quite, ages ago, I was nineteen, just a bit older than Elio and it has been the most frightening and simultaneously the most fascinating feeling I had experienced — I never would have thought I’d be capable of feeling that. Feeling so… so _much._ It took my breath away and I… I couldn’t _think_ and at the same time I’ve never understood so many things at this level and I really didn’t care at all. My thought processes were heightened to the extreme, but so were my emotions. I’ve never cried as much as I did back then, first out of frustration, because I thought my feelings weren’t reciprocated and I couldn’t deduce _anything_ and I didn’t dare ask. Then out of joy, I couldn’t believe what was happening, they way another body felt under my hands, they way I reacted to someone else’s hands on my skin and then, of course, finally, out of heartbreak — God, how it _hurt._ And that was what started all the other stuff—” 

John listens to the man as he tells his story of his first love, and its loss. About how this film has stirred something inside him he had deemed long forgotten – _deleted,_ he says, and John wants to ask, but the torrent of words continues before he can _._ John listens to his beautiful, sombre voice, his distinguished, upper-class accent. The way he phrases things is completely and fascinatingly off sometimes. _Officer class, all the same,_ John thinks. It is only at the end of his story when the stranger mentions his former lover’s name, _Victor_ , that John’s heart somersaults in his chest and he is reminded of his own inner turmoil. 

Eventually the words come out more slowly. The stranger pauses to take a few breaths. 

Sherlock feels calmer. He is vaguely shocked at himself for sharing this part of his life, of his heart with someone he doesn’t know at all. He takes another look at the man sitting opposite him, at his tired face, the soft lines around his eyes, dark blue and _gentle_ and a little restless, as if fighting the urge to say something. Or not to say something. 

For once Sherlock doesn’t want to deduce anything, although he is tempted to impress the man. But it’s never been as easy as that, his mind doesn’t simply stop firing observations and deductions. _Around 40, left-handed, medical doctor, former military —_ ex-army doctor _actually, invalided six to eight years ago, probably abroad… so Afghanistan or Iraq, single, closeted—_

“Bisexual — I think I’m bisexual,” the army doctor blurts out. “God, I’ve never even said that out loud, to anyone. I’ve — I’ve never really been with a man. Well. Kissed one or two. But — yeah, nothing to write home about. My sister’s gay and when she came out to my parents, my dad practically stopped talking to her and… and although it’s been more than 20 years and my dad has been dead for eight, I — it made a fucking impression on me, it seems.” He presses his lips together and rubs the palm of his hand over both his eyes. “Christ, this film has shattered me.” 

And this is how they talk. Two complete strangers, two men to whom words don’t come easily, and they are both secretly surprised at how easy and _right_ it feels to talk and to listen to each other. 

They share details about their lives the film has reminded them of. And then one of them comes back to a scene from the film and they both choke for a moment, not really acknowledging it, but not hiding their feelings either. There are a lot of scenes to talk about. 

They don’t quite dare to look at each other, they try to catch each other’s glance, but let go of it again quickly. They treat each other’s and their own openness and vulnerability with much more care than they would have expected to be capable of. 

When they have finished their pints, John signals the barman for another round. 

— 

It gets late. The noise in the pub slowly dies down, and people leave. 

“What happened after Victor?” 

John still feels he should be embarrassed to ask the other man something so personal. If the stranger gets mad at him, he has got every right to do so. John studies his face. He is a beautiful man, and John allows himself to take notice of that. He’s fascinating, too, quick-witted doesn’t even start to cover it. John has the distinct impression he gets to see a version of the stranger he usually hides from others. Just like John does. 

But the stranger doesn’t get angry. Instead, he tells John. 

“Nothing. I—” The man’s eyes shoot up at the ceiling and he exhales before carrying on. “I shut myself off from personal relationships. My elder brother, who is a total and utter pain in the arse, had told me that” — and here he makes air quotes — “ _’Caring is not an advantage’._ Well, I certainly got it at that point.” 

He pauses again. 

“I started using drugs, somehow finished uni — chemistry at Cambridge. Not a complete waste of time.” 

”Drugs?” John knows he sounds too concerned. 

“Heroin and cocaine, a seven percent solution, and whatever had been available.” 

“Christ.” 

“I survived.” 

“I know.” 

“As did you.” 

“Yeah.” 

They fall silent for a long time. The last of the other guests wave their good-byes to the barman. Sherlock ignores them. 

“I survived—” John swallows. “War. I survived war. I got shot. In my shoulder. In Afghanistan, a few years back. I’d been a field surgeon. I was invalided out of the army and it felt fucking horrible. Had a few tough years back in London. But… I guess I survived those as well. I’m working as a doctor again, at a small clinic in Balham. It’s — great. It really is.” 

“It isn’t.” 

“No.” He admits it far too quickly. It sounds like a sigh. 

“You miss something in your life.” 

John raises his head, but keeps his eyes fixed at the glass of his almost empty pint in his hands. 

“Guess I do. Too bad I never found out what it is.” 

— 

The barman finally insists on closing the pub for the night. They end up sharing a cab and don’t talk much. It doesn’t feel strange. 

At night, it is only a twenty minute ride from Soho to where John lives. The area has nothing of Soho’s buzzing liveliness. He doesn’t particularly like it — renting that basement flat had merely been practical, nothing more. It was a great improvement on the army bedsit where he’d spent the first months after his discharge, but it still felt depressingly ordinary. Impersonal. One small house next to another, dust bins in the sad front yards. All houses looking like not quite identical twins, containing the endlessly small, ordinary lives. Nothing ever happens to the man living here. To the man he has become. 

Usually John just takes the tube. When he first got back from Afghanistan he’d never have wasted the little money he had on cab rides, and old habits die hard. He makes the cab stop a few streets from where he lives. He’ll walk the rest of the way to cut down the fare. 

Before he gets out, he wants to pay the cabbie, but Sherlock refuses. John feels lost. 

“Thank you.” He frowns and looks at the man who feels strangely familiar now. “I — I don’t even know your name.” 

“Sherlock.” 

“Sherlock,” the army doctor repeats, in a low voice, softly and thoughtfully. He looks at Sherlock for a while and suddenly seems to remember to tell him his own name. “I’m John.” 

“Good night, John. — And thank you, too.” 

— 

On his way home, John realizes that Sherlock hasn’t told him his surname or where he lives. John wouldn’t have dared asking him for his phone number on the best of days. 

During next day’s lunch break, John walks to the Waterstones across the street from the clinic and buys a copy of _Call Me By Your Name._ He starts reading while he eats his sandwich _._ He has made it just twenty pages into the novel, even underlined a few sentences, when he decides to watch the film again that night, desperate to capture last night’s feeling again, secretly clinging to the only place he connects with Sherlock. 

_This is not, cannot, had better not be a dream, because the words that came to me, as I pressed my eyes shut, were, This is like coming home, like coming home after years away among Trojans and Lestrygonians, like coming home to a place where everyone is like you, where people know, they just know — coming home as when everything falls into place and you suddenly realize that for seventeen years all you’d been doing was fiddling with the wrong combination._

Sherlock isn’t at the cinema. But John still watches the film and this time, it is his face that is streaked with tears. When he gets home after a lonely ride on the tube, brimming with so many things he hadn’t been allowed to feel, he downloads the audiobook first to his laptop and then to his phone. Hours later, he falls asleep listening to the deep, rich, American-accented voice of the actor who played Oliver. 

He listens to the audiobook on his commute to work, where he examines his patients as if he wasn’t there, where he stitches wounds and checks throats and prescribes medicines. He thinks of Elio and Oliver and Sherlock all the time. 

When John closes his eyes, Sherlock is there again. He can almost hear his voice. He tries to distinguish his fascination with the film from his fascination with Sherlock and never knows where to draw the line. He has never watched a film like that, never has been touched this way by a story told on screen. He will have to divide his life into before watching this film and after watching it. 

Before meeting Sherlock and after meeting him. 

He watches the film every night, at the same cinema, at the same time. Sometimes he even manages to book the same seat. The seat next to him remains empty every time. John tries not to ache. 

As the book and the film resonate more strongly with him, as he consumes them again and again, he needs them even more, feels even more. He is stripping off layer after layer of his buried self until he gets to the core, which isn’t his core alone because he sees images of Sherlock there, imprinted into his bones and his cells — but how could that be. 

He is a man of forty years, he has lived a life, he thought he knew who he was. 

He doesn’t know a _fucking thing._

He wants to meet him again, just once more. Once more. 

— 

Sherlock reads the novel as well. He analyzes it, he checks the references to Greek mythology, Heraclitus, judaism — and the cultivation and grafting of apricots, for good measure. He finds out everything there is about author of the novel, the director of the film _and_ the man who played Oliver (because he is blond, and doesn’t say the things he feels but tries to swallow them down, so much like — John). Sherlock finds out that he narrated the audiobook. So he buys it, and listens to it on repeat. 

Sherlock is intrigued by playing Bach the way Liszt would have played him. He experimentally transcribes a few pieces for violin and tries it himself. And he keeps wondering what kind of music John likes. Does he know how to dance? _(No. Cane. And even without — no. Obviously)._

He does, of course, try the thing with the peach. For science. 

It is most erotic experience he has had in years. He is rendered speechless by how amazing — how _weird —_ it feels, and by the fact that he can’t help but picture John coming to his bedroom at night. In his fantasy things blur together — the balcony in Italy and his flat in Baker Street. Steps on the stairs and and steps outside the window. 

There are a million things he wants to ask John. 

— 

After watching the film six evenings in a row, John has not a doubt left about being bisexual. Or about the fact that he has lived in his own coma for far too long. He sends a text to the woman he’d met just outside the clinic after her car had broken down. They’d gone out for dinner twice, before he’d watched the film. He just says that he _can’t._ Not anymore. 

Most of all John can’t stop thinking about Sherlock. He wonders what Sherlock has looked like when he was nineteen and it drives him mad to know he had his heart broken by this Victor bloke. He can’t help but picturing him like Elio — lanky and smart and gifted and curious, feeling things with crushing intensity and not holding anything back. 

_And, God, the curls, even the curls are right._

He wonders, over and over, whether or not Sherlock might have a boyfriend. If he did, they would’ve watched the film together, wouldn’t they? He hopes he hasn’t got one. 

John wonders how far he’d dare to go if he ever met Sherlock again. It has been ages since he has last kissed a man. It was a different life, really, before Afghanistan and getting shot, before being old and scarred. Before his limp. 

But he can’t forget the way Sherlock looked at him, his raw emotions and, at the same time, his shocking straightforwardness that — if it hadn’t just been, well, _Sherlock_ — he would have called rude. 

— 

On the seventh night in the dark cinema, John has given up hope of ever meeting him again. He tries to focus on the film, as the now-familiar music begins. But then, with a rustling of heavy wool, someone slumps down into the seat next to him. The moment he smells Sherlock, a hint of his aftershave and cold cigarette smoke, John wonders why he didn’t incorporate this smell in his fantasies. He is too nervous to be happy. 

John doesn’t know what to say. And even if he did, he is sure he couldn’t make a single sound. 

Sherlock just reaches out in the darkness, squeezes his hand and sinks against the back of his chair. 

John threads his fingers into Sherlock’s and he is aware of how desperate this gesture is. He tries to pull back, shocked by his own boldness, like a child that has touched a hot iron. Sherlock doesn’t let it go. 

John has to bite his shaking lip when Elio sits in the dusk, on the steps, waiting and waiting, achingly alone.Sherlock starts to stroke the back of his hand. John doesn’t dare turn his head to look at him. 

Elio and Oliver hold one another, desperate on the train platform, and Sherlock is crying again. John holds his hand a little tighter. 

When the credits have stopped rolling, when the lights are back on and most people have left, John looks at Sherlock for the first time, his eyes still red and puffy. 

“Get a drink again?” 

Sherlock glances away, suddenly shy. For a second, he looks terribly young. 

“Let’s just walk.” 

— 

It is icy outside, freezing even in central London. They walk eastwards from Soho towards Marylebone. They pass the usual crowds of revellers and pubgoers, falling comfortably into step with each other, despite John’s cane. John only has a vague idea of where they are heading and he stops caring altogether when he notices that Sherlock leads him through small alleys, taking hidden shortcuts. He seems to know every street and cornerstone by heart. 

Their hands brush against each other as they walk and Sherlock wonders whether he should take John’s again. He doesn’t dare to. But in spite of the cold he doesn’t put on his glove back on, so he can feel John’s warm skin for the instant their hands touch every few steps. 

The film is still fresh in his mind, the pictures haven’t yet faded. The gulf between this dark December night in London and sunlit summer days in Italy couldn’t be wider, but he has to think of Elio and Oliver together, cycling to B., or walking through Roman alleys. Maybe there isn’t much of a difference at all. He smiles a hidden smile and wipes the corner of his eye with his hand. 

“It’s not getting any better, is it?” John says after walking a few minutes in silence. 

“No. And yes,” Sherlock murmurs, so low that only John can hear him against the noise of the city. 

John looks at him, waiting for him to go on speaking. 

“Do you think—” Sherlock has to clear his throat against the tightness. “Do you think Oliver calls him by his name, at the end of the novel? Elio?” 

He feels stupid asking this, usually he is the one who knows things other people don’t, who observes the details other people’s _average_ intellects filter, who has the answers others are too blind to see. 

At some point during the years he’s worked with the Yard, somewhere in his reinvention as a Consulting Detective, his ability to know things had become an obligation that others relied on without a second thought. 

And sometimes he is tired of it. So tired. 

It’s not that it happens very often, the _not knowing._ But more often than he would like to admit, those things that are out of his grasp have to do with relationships. Sentiment. Everything that, a long time ago, he found it easier to start labelling _not my area._

“Yes. Yes, he does. And it changes everything,” John says and he sounds so sure of it Sherlock can’t quite believe his certainty. 

John stops. 

Sherlock stops, too, an instant later, and turns around to John. While Sherlock absent-mindedly notices his all-too-human physical reactions — accelerated heart rate, increased perspiration, a hint of nausea — John is calm. Sherlock stares at him. 

John, who fidgeted endlessly on their way from the cinema to the pub a week ago, not knowing how to talk to Sherlock; John, who clearly hasn’t slept very well this past week; John, who cried again at the end of the film, just twenty minutes ago. 

John just stands there and holds his gaze. 

_Now, in the silence of the moment I stared back, not to defy him or to show him I wasn’t shy any longer, but to surrender, to tell him this is who I am, this is who you are, this is what I want, there’s nothing but truth between us now, and when there’s truth there are no barriers, no shifty glances, and if nothing comes of this, let it never be said that either of us was unaware of what might happen. And maybe I stared back because there was wasn’t a thing to lose now. I stared back with the all-knowing, I-dare-you-to-kiss-me gaze of someone who both challenges and flees with one and the same gesture._

John steps a bit closer and tilts his head to look up at Sherlock. Sherlock feels laid bare under John’s gaze. _Nothing but truth, John,_ he thinks and he opens his mouth ever so slightly, wondering afterwards if he did it on purpose or subconsciously, a foolish and clumsy attempt to somehow invite John in, but then he doesn’t have to think anymore, because obviously, it has worked. 

John kisses him with cool, dry lips, his breath warm on Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock notices things he never would have thought he’d notice during kissing — the soft rasp of stubble against his chin _(electric, not blade),_ the fact that the height difference between them would allow John to fit against his chest rather well if he were approximately 5.9 inches closer to him. The _sound_ of it. The sound of their kiss, the sound of their lips when John withdraws a fraction. Lips make tiny noises, softly plosive, a low swishing, skin on skin. It is this, John’s skin on Sherlock’s skin, that makes Sherlock grasp at least some part of what is happening. 

John leans in for another kiss, tongue wet and warm, taste incomparable. Sherlock vaguely registers the metallic sound of John’s cane falling to the ground, the touch of his hands on his back and now John proves that his body fits against Sherlock’s chest as perfectly as predicted. The sensation of John’s tongue swirling against his own shuts down Sherlock’s thoughts. He curses himself for being so inexperienced at kissing and then there is nothing left but simply trying to show John how much he wants this. 

— 

They stop in front of a black door on Baker Street, near Regent’s Park. Sherlock fumbles with the key. The shiny brass number, 221B, reflects the light of the cars passing by. 

Sherlock leads John up the stairs and opens the door to his flat. Like every place where people live, it has a very unique smell. There is smoke from a fireplace in it, traces of the rich spices of Thai food. A faint whiff of chemicals, which alarms John a little. Paper and books and dust and old upholstery, and the smell of Sherlock he noticed so clearly when he sat down next to him in the cinema. 

Sherlock takes a step into the flat and loosens his scarf. John follows him and takes a look around, not hiding his curiosity. Sherlock makes a half-hearted attempt at shoving a stack of files under the coffee table, as if apologizing for the mess. 

This place is unlike any John has ever seen. Two armchairs stand in front of a fireplace. One could be an old designer piece, the worn-out leather faded to grey over the metal frame. The other one, a battered upholstered monstrosity, has a union jack pillow on it, and a plaid blanket that looks comfortable. John would like to sit down there. 

He spots at least three laptops amid the clutter on the desk between the living room windows, an impressive bison’s skull with headphones on it hanging on the wall and watching over them. There are piles of magazines and books stocked on the floor, a human skull on the mantelpiece, large insects pinned in glass showcases. 

The kitchen rather resembles a messy lab, there is a microscope and various test tubes on the table, cups with cold tea among them. If Alexander Fleming were to discover penicillin in his mould cultures today instead of 1928, it would be in a place like this. 

It is a flat that is being lived in, a home filled to the brim with life. There is nothing small or ordinary about it. 

He turns to look at Sherlock and they stand in the living room for a moment, both suddenly lost for what to do. How to do things. Whatever things they were going to do. 

Sherlock takes off his coat and discards it on the leather chair. John hesitates, then shrugs off his own and lays it over the back of the other chair. He looks at it, his coat lying across this chair, blending in with all the other things in Sherlock’s home. 

John almost suspects Sherlock might offer him tea next, just to follow the British protocol when you invite someone over to your house. But he looks at him for a heartbeat, takes John’s hand, gently, trembling a little, and guides him through the kitchen, through the hallway, into his bedroom. 

His bedroom. 

It is tidy, even clean, devoid of the other rooms’ paraphernalia. The air is a bit chillier than in the rest of the flat. 

Sherlock bites his lips, unsure, now, if it was a good idea to do this, to bring John here, even though the kiss certainly felt as if he wanted it too. He squints his eyes, wondering what to do with his hands, with his whole self. 

Awkwardness begins to prickle at the back of Sherlock’s neck, but then John takes a step closer, kisses Sherlock’s jaw and slowly starts undoing the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. 

Sherlock sighs. 

How did they get here? How did John do it? It is such a small and easy thing, raising one’s hands, opening a button on some else’s shirt, two, three. And yet it takes more effort, more courage than Sherlock can imagine. 

He just stands there, hands hanging loosely by his sides, while John gently undresses him and kisses his neck. Sherlock shivers as the shirt slips from his shoulders, and shivers again when John lifts Sherlock’s right hand, kisses the pulse hammering under the skin of his wrist and opens the buttons on his cuff. Sherlock slips out of the sleeve and puts his naked arm around John’s shoulder, not holding on too tight, still careful. 

John opens the other cuff. The shirt drops to the floor and and Sherlock feels the heat he is emanating in the cool room. John’s body is warm under his fingers and his kisses grow firmer as he runs his hands over Sherlock’s pectorals and belly. He touches the sides of Sherlock’s torso, his fingers not quite tickling, but leaving goosebumps in their wake. 

John notices this, exhales with a wondrous laugh, and grazes the delicate skin again. He gently presses both hands against Sherlock’s ribcage and tilts his head to kiss him. 

He kisses Sherlock slowly. Slow enough to light a fire inside him, to nourish the flame until it consumes him, until Sherlock raises his hands to John’s head, cradling it, holding him. 

John groans against his lips. Sherlock feels John’s breath on his face again and inhales immediately, trying to incorporate the air that has just been in John’s lungs. He needs more of him, now, desperately. He pulls John’s jumper up, reluctantly breaking the kiss to wriggle it over John’s head. They try to undo the buttons of John’s shirt together, ending up in a tangle of hands and cloth, until John says, voice gravelly, “We’ll need to coordinate.” 

Somehow they wrestle off John’s shirt and the moment it is gone, John grows tense again, his hands drop away from Sherlock’s body. Sherlock stops kissing him and draws back a little to look at John. Then he sees it. 

The reason why John left the army and why he struggles with an intermittent tremor in his left hand — a gunshot in his shoulder, entrance wound and exit wound, shattered bones and muscle, torn blood vessels and destroyed nerves in between. 

“I’m — sorry, it’s — it’s ugly,” John says, trying to apologize for how he looks, for his discomfort with being naked, although getting out off his clothes had been the most brilliant idea just a minute ago. 

“It isn’t ugly.” Sherlock strokes his thumb over the the faded pink and silvery skin of the scar. “It’s… _fascinating_ ,” he breathes and the way he says it sounds like the highest praise possible. 

Sherlock bends down to kiss the scar. John doesn’t quite feel it when Sherlock’s soft, full lips touch it and linger there, parts of the tissue have remained numb. But for the first time since he was shot this alien, unfamiliar flesh that grew to close his wound feels like a part of him. Like it has a right to be there. 

Sherlock lifts his head. John is still looking away from him, his head turned sideways, and Sherlock can see far too much shame in the way he holds himself. He can’t understand how John can be ashamed of himself and his looks. Maybe John’s body will understand if Sherlock’s body tells him, if they skip the brain, the mind, the worries and the shame altogether. 

He runs his fingers down to John’s lower back, strong spinal erector muscles beneath his fingertips. He pauses at John’s lower back, giving him the slightest upward pull. John’s back straightens under his hands and abandons the sagged, depressed posture John had drifted into before. Sherlock pulls him closer, still holding John’s back for leverage, and presses his hard cock against John’s abdomen. 

John groans again, deeply and hungrily. He presses forward, too, and Sherlock feels an answering hardness against his thigh. 

_God,_ Sherlock thinks, _God,_ although he had dismissed the concept of religion decades ago. 

Their kisses grow deeper and more determined, only pausing to open belts and zips, to strip off trousers and jeans and socks. 

When they stand in front of each other wearing nothing but boxers, they are both panting, and none of them knows whether it is arousal or nerves stealing the breath from their lungs. 

They both hesitate for a moment and then Sherlock very slowly strips off his pants. 

John swallows. Sherlock is beautiful. He is a man. He is the most beautiful human being John has ever laid his eyes and hands on. For a moment it is John who doesn’t understand how he has ended up here, with him, like this. 

He catches Sherlock’s eyes, open and vulnerable, saying, _this is who I am, this is who you are, this is what I want,_ and tries his hardest to reply by slipping both thumbs into the elastic of his own pants and tugging them down, revealing his own hard cock. 

John steps closer to Sherlock and again and looks at his naked body in wonder, runs his fingers down his chest and belly, across the delicate skin on his hipbones. When he trails down to his cock Sherlock fears he is about to sob. John closes his hand around Sherlock’s cock and holds it. He doesn’t move his hand or his fingers, he simply feels the tender skin and the heat for as long as he can. 

Sherlock holds his breath, he feels as if his cock is pounding and – _ridiculous!_ – he is afraid he might come from John’s touch alone. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. 

He pulls John into his arms, matching as much of their skin as he can, and it is only then that John starts to stroke his cock, rubbing circles on his frenulum. Sherlock gasps and drags both of them to the bed, trying to hide that his legs are about to give out under him. 

He lies down flat on his back, panting. John kneels down, one leg between his, one next to him. He bends down to Sherlock, kisses him again languidly. 

They kiss and their hands roam across their naked bodies, exploring. Feeling their breaths and their hearts speed with excitement and arousal. 

John shifts his weight and adjusts his position. Sherlock lifts his head up to look at him and the sight knocks the breath off his lungs. 

John is lying between his spread legs, propped up on his elbows. His hand is caressing the shaft of Sherlock’s cock. He lowers his head and presses a kiss just underneath the head. 

Sherlock meets his eyes, swallowing hard. John looks back him unguarded. 

“I want to, Sherlock, I want to.” 

John returns his gaze to Sherlock’s cock. When he takes him into his mouth, Sherlock’s head falls back onto the pillow. 

John wants this. He has wanted this for so long. Somethings cracks open inside him as he tastes Sherlock’s salty precome on his tongue, as he feels how silky-smooth the head of Sherlock’s cock is, how Sherlock shivers and moans when he licks and sucks it, fitting perfectly, beautifully against his palate. He has to open his mouth wider than he had imagined in his fantasies. He feels clumsy as he tries to figure this out, how to do this right, what it is that Sherlock likes. 

He sucks again, takes him in a little deeper. He strokes Sherlock’s shaft, tries to coordinate the motion of his mouth and of his hand, tries to find a rhythm that works for both of them. The little noises Sherlock makes, soft, broken groans, that deep voice of his — they go straight to his own cock and they make him try harder, do better, and there are more noises and John stops thinking about technique and tongue and teeth altogether. 

He is sucking his lover’s cock. There is nothing he wants more. 

He looks up at Sherlock, groaning and panting underneath him. Sherlock can’t stop his right hand from trailing across his chest, gripping his nipples, hard. His left rakes through his hair, then pulling at it. 

John involuntarily grinds his own cock against the mattress. He tries to take Sherlock’s cock in deeper. His hand is covered in saliva, it’s all slick and hot under his fingers. Sherlock’s breathing is growing more and more ragged and his hips are starting to buck. 

_He’s going to come,_ John realizes and if he could, he would smile, he’d even grin with pride and happiness, but he doesn’t want to let go. He wants Sherlock to come in his mouth. He sucks harder, just a bit, and moves faster, exactly how he likes it himself when he is close. He puts his free hand on Sherlock’s hip bone, he wants to feel him move, thrust and fuck into his mouth. 

Sherlock gasps John’s name over and over again. He grabs his hand, and squeezes it tightly as he goes faster, and faster, and faster. Their hands clench so hard it hurts when he comes with stuttering hips and a hoarse cry. 

John’s mouth fills with Sherlock’s semen, bitter-salty and hot. He swallows it down after a moment, still sucking Sherlock lightly until his shivers subside and stroking his hand. 

“John, come here,” Sherlock breathes, pulling John up to his chest and wrapping his arms around him. “I need you.” 

All tension is gone from Sherlock’s face. 

“I need you,” he repeats, still out of breath. 

He drags John into a deep kiss, moaning in surprise as he tastes himself in John’s mouth. 

“I need you, too” John replies, shocked by the desperate sound of his own voice. It’s the truth, he realizes. 

John shifts up until he is straddling him. While they are kissing, Sherlock’s hands dance slowly across John’s body, grasping John anew, understanding him with means other than his mind. One hand trails down to John’s cock, hard and wet with precome. Sherlock swirls two fingers across the head of John’s cock, gathering as much of the fluid as he can. He looks at John and licks his precome from his fingers. 

John crashes his mouth on Sherlock’s and moans as their tastes mingle. Sherlock has to close his eyes. Although he is spent and sated, the heat in John’s kiss and the desire he tastes are breathtaking and leave him wanting again. 

He takes John’s cock back into his hand and starts working him, and he doesn’t go slow. John groans again, he groans from the depths of his soul. Sherlock feels the sound resonate in his own body. 

Sherlock’s hand on him, there, finally — for a moment John thinks it is more than he can take. There is more to this, it isn’t just sex. It is what he has desired and what he has denied himself. It isn’t just Sherlock, doing this, taking John’s cock in his hand, caressing him until he comes — it’s also John himself, giving into it, surrendering himself to Sherlock and being himself. The way he is. 

Sherlock breaks the kiss. 

“Sit up. I want to see you come,” Sherlock whispers against John’s lips. 

John heaves himself up on his outstretched arms, his face only a few inches above Sherlock’s. Sherlock thinks he has never seen anyone so close. 

John’s body moves beautifully above him in powerful, fluid thrusts and the thought that John is beautiful during sex, beautiful when he climaxes, almost hurts Sherlock. He wipes the sweat from John’s eyebrows with his free hand and tastes it as well. He lays a finger on John’s lips and John takes it, sucks it and doesn’t let go of it. 

The perfect equilibrium, having reached the greatest arousal just before the cascade of orgasm sets in, it is written all over John’s face. Sherlock tries to drag it out for him, he touches him only lightly, knowing that right now, it doesn’t need very much to keep going. John moves above him, beautifully so, pumping his hips steadily against Sherlock’s fist. 

John’s groans turn into sobs and when he comes, he spurts over Sherlock’s belly and across his chest. He sags down and lets his head rest on Sherlock’s shoulder, panting against his skin. As his breathing evens out, he sits up, enough to look at Sherlock again. 

Sherlock’s hair is damp and chaotic, and his eyes, those eyes John still can’t fathom or describe, glisten intensely with emotion. When John brushes his lips against Sherlock’s in a light kiss, Sherlock keeps his eyes open, never stopping to watch him, not wanting to lose a second he can take him in. 

John looks down at Sherlock’s torso, looks at his come, white on the pink flushed skin on Sherlock’s chest. He touches it with the tip of his finger. It is warm and he can’t tell if it carries the warmth of his own body or Sherlock’s. He puts his whole hand flat on Sherlock’s chest, there, where his come is, and rubs slow circles, spreads it until both his hand and Sherlock’s skin are sticky with it. 

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes. 

John kisses him again. Then he hears a rustle of cloth and John starts to clean him up. He wipes his shirt gently over Sherlock’s chest, until there is nothing left. Sherlock lies there, eyes still closed. John is taking care of him. 

— 

Later John props himself up on one elbow, watching Sherlock. He has to think of Oliver, of the look on his face after he had slept with Elio for the first time, and of the fear that had been there. 

Yes, he feels it, he is afraid of what this might mean, where it might go. How it will feel in the harsh light of everyday life. 

But there is more. There is so much more, because although he has only spent a total of two evenings with Sherlock, the man has captured him like no one has before, ever. Wonder and happiness and — is that really possible, now? Already? — _love_ outweigh the fear. 

He takes another long look at Sherlock’s naked body. His fingers slowly dance across his warm, solid chest. He wants to know everything about Sherlock. He wants to intimately know his mind, inside-out. He wants to inhabit his body, and he wants Sherlock to inhabit his. To claim him, again and again, and he wants to be claimed in return. He wants to _stay._

Sherlock opens his eyes. John half-expects them to reflect the light the way cat’s eyes do. But they are dark, full of tenderness, and hope. 

Sherlock runs a finger from John’s hairline down his face, over his right eyebrow and a fluttering eyelid, along his cheek where tears have glistened hours earlier. When he touches the corner of John’s mouth, John turns his head and kisses the tip of Sherlock’s finger. And lets go of it again. Sherlock runs his finger down his jaw, his adam’s apple, bobbing as John swallows under his touch, his neck, along his clavicle. Across John’s scar, and John’s face crumples. He touches his nipple and hears the soft inhale. He touches John’s ribs, his belly, he follows the crease of his thigh to the dark blond hair, warm and a little damp with sweat. He touches John’s soft cock, strokes it and lets his hand rest there for a moment. He runs his finger down John’s thigh, caressing his skin. 

They look at each other for a long time. 

John lies down again and buries his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, allowing him to hold him. 

“Might’ve found what I’ve been missing,” he murmurs, his lips brushing Sherlock’s skin as he speaks. 

Sherlock hums and turns his head until he can press a sleepy kiss to John's hair. 


End file.
